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shorthaltsjester · 10 months

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sometimes people will say “going dark” and then what they’re actually talking about is just people no longer presenting a carefully constructed version of their emotions and experiences.

like. emotional turmoil is not the same as darkness. laudna in this Fictional Universe that has tangibly different stakes wrt to death and killing than our own, is at best like . morally neutral for what she just did like. man has been secretly trying to kill you, and then just tried to do so again, killing him back is a fair choice. and even if i was someone who is excited by delilah’s inability to escape from the narrative, this shit isn’t about delilah. laudna made a choice. if delilah is back or whatever it’s a choice that laudna made because something in that grants her more control than her existing conditions did. this isn’t some Delilah Takes Over, it’s Laudna Expressly Makes The Choice To Call Forth Something within Herself to remedy the lack of control that’s been thrust upon her. if y’all want to Continue to limit Laudna’s agency (as the cr fandom is so, so want to do when a female character makes a choice that isn’t Good according to some weird system of virtue ethics) go ahead.

likewise with orym. little guy is not “going dark” because he has finally made direct action about his emotional turmoil in dealing with a situation which has similarly left him without control and has also placed him in a position where his stalwart conviction towards protecting and honouring those he loves and has lost alike is constantly met with other people he cares for going well.. what if they had a point/we are killing other peoples loved ones/etc. which like . yeah that might be frustrating and in fact might lead him to go, actually, i can’t afford to try and maintain some abject morality where I carry a locket that will literally only provide guilt. orym is completely committed to his beliefs, the locket and what it represents has never been a limit to what he will do, only a reminder of the consequences of what he might cause in those actions. but they Are at war and orym has a billion things on his plate. he can put down the locket. especially when bor’dor is the explicit manifestation of that locket’s symbolism. the subtext rapidly became the text and orym doesn’t need a reminder. it’s there in the fact that team issylra is walking away with two friends, not three.

these are character who have at every turn denied their own emotions in various forms while still being acutely aware of what they deny, whether that awareness was/is fully realized or not. many of laudna’s early convos with ashton show us that there is some awareness to the lighthearted spooky goth girl and how that persona fades when she thinks too much about what has led her and maintained that reality. likewise the entirety of orym’s story thus far is defined by his grief in a very literal sense, it Has extended from that grief to also the commitment he had to the purpose of figuring out the assassination attempt on keyleth but as we have seen, that purpose has fallen apart. paired with the quasi-reopening of his grief that was getting to see will again only to have to turn away, i don’t think there’s a lack of awareness in orym of how much he hurts. but between his actions and 4SD, that hurt tends to get buried under guilt or Responsibility.

and now, finally, both of them have admitted to that Not in the safety of small introspection or one-on-one conversations but with actions that they cannot shy away from or deny. laudna killed bor’dor and orym encouraged her to. and it Is a complex situation but truly I don’t really think it’s a “going dark” one. because they’re not giving into some overhanging Darkness of Morality™, they’re admitting that they are hurt and have long been hurting.

or, y’know, tldr for those who continue to deny laudna and orym agency or fully villainise them for whatever weird reasons . you could listen to laudna and ashton’s conversation that pretty much lays it out explicitly. laudna claims she’s weak for having chosen to kill bor’dor. ashton denies that and affirms instead that, no, she’s hurt.

#critical role #cr spoilers #laudna #orym #team issylra #maybe it’s because a lot of these people r also the people who have no literacy wrt religious and philosophical complexity #that Screams bad experience that hasn’t been reckoned with but. the Big part of healing is that. a lot of the time #especially with Trauma. the mess is gonna come before the pretty little bow does #like noah fence but . this is The Most interesting laudna and orym have been to me this far and it’s not because they’re Darker #it’s because they’re being more true to themselves #maybe this is nitpicky I Don’t Care #me watching c1 as vex admits that she still feels like a burden and Heavily considers being treeified for sondor. ‘is this vex Going Dark?’#as an imogen Lover . let’s be real and admit the only Genuine going dark risk is her at this point in the campaign #because like. i truly don’t see anyone else making the Choice to do absolutely fucked up selfish things #and imogen considers doing that shit like . once every two eps At Least (affectionate but eyes wide about it)#anyway. reunion will be very interesting with an orym and laudna who are shedding pieces of what maintains their like Group Role #bells hells #critical role spoilers #cr3 #cr campaign 3 #bell’s hells #my posts

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 year

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Come Hell Or Highwater: Part 3

A/N: Trigger warnings for mention of blood/mild violence/bruising/wounds

It was difficult not to be distracted by the appearance of raindrops that rolled down the clear glass of the music room. It was almost as difficult to ignore the rain as it was to look past the overhanging clouds that gave the city an inauspicious and dismal appearance.

The forecast had been calling for rain for the past seven days, each consecutive day supposedly going to be barraged with precipitation and yet only today had the city gotten any.

It would have bothered you if you hadn’t been staying later to collaborate on a project with one of the other music composition students. You would’ve been concerned about trying to make it back to your apartment in the dreary weather, even if the rain had already stopped, but seeing as how you’d be working late you figured the rain would stop.

Although the longer you watched the rain while your classmate worked, the quicker you had become doubtful that the clouds would lift and the rain would stop. It was a heavy and trodden blanket that hung over the city, the rain and the dense burrowing clouds adding yet another layer of darkness.

“I can walk you home.” Your classmate and collaborator, Ryan Beauchamp, had offered you a ride when he was done.

Normally you would’ve taken him up on the offer although the prospect of staying another hour past what you already had seemed worse than facing the weather.

You appreciated the offer anyway, you said as much when you gathered your notes and the composition pages and tucked them into your bag. You knew Ryan was a good friend and more trustworthy than most college guys you knew.

Ryan was a brother to three younger sisters and he’d liked to consider himself a universal campus big brother. He had chided you more than once for trying to walk home on a particularly cold night, or when he was worried about you running into trouble.

You’d told him countless times when you were working together that the walk was short and it was safe enough.

Once you got off campus onto the main road you only had a fifteen-minute walk and you would pass a few places that were open late in case you needed somewhere to hide if anything had happened. It was a reoccurring event that you’d grown used to in the past three weeks while working on the project with Ryan.

You would gather all your composition papers and notes, all the thoughts and ideas in your head that you’d bounced off each other, shove them into your bag and then start to head to the exit with him. Ryan and yourself would make small talk, insignificant conversation before you’d part ways.

That night had been no different, to your relief the raindrops that had barraged the portion of the city you were in had stopped, the cement drenched and pooling in sections of the surface. You started your trek through campus as usual, avoiding the grass that was soaked headily with moisture only stopping once you’d stepped off campus to find your phone.

It was the message you’d gotten from your roommate that was the catalyst for your night gone to hell, the innocent message asking you to stop at the drugstore on the way home to pick up her prescription.

It was a simple request, an errand that you hadn’t thought twice about doing since you were closest and the pharmacist was closing soon.

Your roommate wouldn’t have made it to the drugstore before they closed and she needed the medicine for the morning, a problem that you hadn’t minded helping her with. It was a detour that you had made before, the quick stop at the pharmacy wouldn’t add but minutes to your trip home from university—a short errand that bled into a flurried hell that you couldn’t escape.

It was nothing but a moment between stepping outside the pharmacy with your roommate’s prescription in your bag, to the pained and wounded cry that called you toward a side street near the drugstore.

You were caught off guard by the sound that was reminiscent of a wounded animal, the whimper tugging on your bleeding heart and stirring your engrained desire to do good in the world. You followed the sound, your naivety compelling you to help where you could even if you were heading further down the side street.

You found them dumped in the corner of a dead end, two men slumped over together against a chain link fence. Their clothes were torn and ripped to shreds, very little pieces of their once pristine jackets had remained intact and even through the dim lighting you knew they needed help

Dropping to the cold wet concrete, you reached for the man closest to you, the one whose eyes were in a constant flux of opening and shutting as he tried to remain conscience.

You grabbed hold of the front of his jacket and attempted to move him, your stomach churning at the acrid stench of copper that hung in the air, twisted and mixed with the unpleasant malodour of grave injuries.

Even in the darkened side street, you could discern the severity of their wounds. Through the dim light, you could recognize the man furthest from you as one of the more prominent businessmen in the city who had founded a number of councils and boards. You could recognize him through the wounds and the bruises, the blood that clung to him hadn’t done enough to misconstrue his identity.

Jason Wallen was a rich man, he was a man whose face was on countless billboards with his prominent message a vow to the city council to eradicate the crime districts. He had vowed to commit a vast majority of his wealth and influence to find and track down every underhanded man who had invested in the seedy dealings of this place.

“P-please-“ The man clinging limply to the chain link fence pleaded with you, every breath was coming at the cost of his ability to stay awake and verbally communicate with you.

Your hands were going to be stained with blood, and tracings of the necessary and vital substance to keep them both alive were soaking into your clothes as you tried to keep the main you were helping upright.

Sinking back on your haunches, you dug through your bag for your phone, adrenaline pumping through you while you dialled 9-1-1. Your mind was far from you, you were being led by your instincts while talking to the dispatcher detailing everything you had found and needed.

“I d-don’t want to d-die-“ The sound of his gurgling nauseated you, it was a sound that you felt you would never be able to uproot from the corners of your mind.

“You’re not going to die, you’re not going to die. An ambulance is coming, okay? You’re going to get help.” Your voice trembled, your hands desperately trying to stop the bleeding from his chest while you looked at the prominent businessman, watching his chest slow down and his eyes become distant. “You’re going to be okay, you’re going to be fine. Help is coming.”

Despite your effort, it felt like you hadn’t done enough. You should’ve done more.

The sound of sirens pierced the ill silence, the sharp signals of ambulatory care were echoing in your head like an air raid siren only you could hear. You fell back with a strained scream when bright lights illuminated both the side street and the damage done to the two men that were left to die.

You couldn’t get out of the way fast enough for the paramedics, struggling to rise to your feet and grab your bag while they worked on the two men. Your feet carried you out of the side street where you were stopped by two police officers, one speaking on the radio and the other trying to speak to you.

It was all muffled and quiet, discourse between what you couldn’t hear and the images engrained in your mind of the two men and their broken, bruised and battered bodies.

You were jostled from sleep by a warm large hand shaking your shoulder, and the husky whispering of one of your guards.

Your first reaction was to smack his hand away from you and protest his disturbance with a muttered threat that was incomprehensible. Your eyes remained closed, screwed shut while the faint and unrelenting memory that invaded your sleep was replaced with a stern prompt to get up.

“We’re here, Y/N. You need to get out of the vehicle and stretch your legs.” He placed his hand on your shoulder once more, shaking you twice until he could see you open your eyes and feel you shift in the front seat.

You raised your hands to hide your eyes in the palms of your hands, fingertips and nails digging into your scalp as a temporary release of tension. It was only a moment of the dull sense of pain before you lowered your hands and settled your vision on the location of your new and falsified life in the Witness Protection Program until you could head to trial.

The house was another piece of this fabricated story that you would be living until things had come to a close, this structure would be filled with fake memories and dinner parties, gatherings that would all allude to you, Steve, Ari and Andy being this new to town polyamorous unit who wanted peace in a safe place.

It was a fine thread spun into a fairytale-like story that was convoluted, just like the ring on your finger and the rings on theirs. It was all a necessary addition to a lie that was put in place like a shield to hide you until you were useful. So much of the drive had been lost to you being caught in your mind or to sleep that felt less fruitful than it should’ve been.

And now you were home.

It was a cute little house if nothing else, with an enclosed porch that would face the sunset. It was built of solid wood and stained white to match, with a solid oak door that led into the porch and further on into the house. Attached to the left side of the enclosed porch was a swing built into the left of the space with two mismatched hand-sewn pillows.

The house was on two levels, and as far as you understood, had six bedrooms and 4 baths. It was beautiful and newly renovated, it was a farmhouse on the edge of this small town where no one would know your real name.

It was a dream come true in any other situation, if you weren’t here for your protection you’d have loved to live in a place like this. This house was cozy and seemed welcoming, in a small town where everyone helped each other out and neighbours took care of neighbours. This would have been ideal for you, it would have been encompassing some version of your dreams that called to you.

You took it all in with scrutiny, on the edge of fear weighing you down and apprehension rooted in uncertainty. You couldn’t plan your future days, weeks or months. Not even in the most minimal way could you have planned anything and that had sparked your anxiety.

However it wasn’t the homely state of the house or the enclosed porch that had made your attention wander from two of the three men acting as your husbands, it was the trio standing on the lawn waiting for you. The two men and one woman appeared friendly and welcoming, with trays of food and homemade baking resting in their arms.

“Hi! We wanted to be the first to welcome you.” The woman was beautiful though older than yourself, with rich dark hair that was fastened in boxer braids and tied back in a silk scrunchie.

“I’m Lia and these are my husbands, Sam & Carter.” Her husbands, like her, were equally as beautiful as she was and no less friendly or welcoming to the three of you. They had all appeared to be relatively close in age and there was a deep bond between them that was apparent to you even if you’d just met them.

“Grant,” Steve gave his faux name and rest his hand on the small of your back to ease your worries, “my brother Andy and I share our wife.”

They didn’t bat an eye at the idea of sharing, they hadn’t hesitated to extend the polite first meeting with encouraging and warm smiles that matched their personalities.

“The realtor mentioned there were three of you?”

Carter had questioned them, no less polite than he was before.

“Cole works long distance, he’s here for a few days and gone for weeks.” Heat bloomed beneath Ari’s hand when he placed it upon the small of your back, a nudge for you to converse despite your lips feeling like they’d been seen shut.

“I’m sorry, we never even asked your name.” Lia had drawn attention to you, her warm eyes cast upon you expectantly.

“Danah.” You mumbled the name that had become your new identity. “My name is Danah.”

The name felt foreign rolling off your tongue, unclear and unfamiliar though you would have to grow used to it. You repeated yourself, a little more clearly than before and with more enunciation.

“We know how hard it can be to move so we wanted to welcome you with some food. And if you need any help when your things arrive tomorrow, Sam and Carter have the day off.” Lia handed the gifts of food to Steve, trading them off with a polite and warm offer to have dinner together once you were settled.

With the food and gifts of sweets given, the new neighbours had made a quick departure to give you privacy, though you followed them with your eyes until they were out of view.

“We should get inside.” Ari led you first, following behind you as a shield to block you from view as you walked up the steps of the porch, through the screen door and further to the front door of the house.

For now, you were home.

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#navy seal!ari levinson #navy seal!steve rogers #witness protection program!reader #witness protection!reader #witness protection #Ari Levinson x reader x steve Rogers #Steve rogers x reader x andy barber #Andy barber x reader x ari Levinson #Andy barber x reader #ari Levinson x reader #Steve rogers x reader #come hell or Highwater series #come hell or Highwater masterlist #come bell or highwater #come hell or highwater part 3

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